by Cole Savage
“What can I do for you, Miss?”
“I was wondering if you’ve seen a couple of boys running around these parts the last couple of days.”
“Well, I live down the road just off 33, on Cumberland, prit’near the highway, but can’t say that I have.”
“You sure, sir?
“Honey, two youngins’ walking around without parents, I reckon is something I’d a noticed for sure. This ain’t the best place for buckaroos to be milling around by themselves. I’d be happy to ask around, see if anybody’s seen the lads?”
“I appreciate it, mister. But I’d prefer not to advertise it. If you could ask the waitresses, that would be real helpful?”
“I’m Cletus, and I’d be obliged to ask the girls.”
“Hi, Cletus. I’m Nicole, and Cletus, it’s urgent.”
They exchanged a handshake, Cletus with two hands.
“Hey, Emma?” Cletus yelled.
“What, Cletus.”
“No, no, Cletus.” Nicki said looking around. “If it’s alright with you, can you ask them quietly?”
“Oh—I get it. Yep. I reckon I can pull them in the back and ask them— but were real busy right now, might take a minute. I’ll get you a beer while you wait.”
“Thank you, Cletus, I’m good—and Cletus— this is real important.” Cletus made his way down the bar, refilling empty mugs for customers while Nicki waited, scanning the patrons. She cringed when she saw the collection of misfits and mangy hillbillies occupying seats. To her, this place lacked the sweet scent of liquor, and the familiar rancid smell of smoke was drowned out by the ghastly air of unbathed patrons, farmers that reeked of animals, and dirty scruffy men— disheveled men with stained tattered clothing, ferrying long beards.
She glimpsed a couple sitting in a corner booth, under a flickering light that seemed out of place. They were clean-cut displaying worn denim and cowboy boots. She shifted her gaze to a hillbilly and thought about what her friends had said. Hillbillies were common in West Virginia, but these were different. These lived up in the mountains, in shrewd cabins, no power, no water, no jobs, and people assumed their spoils came from distilling moonshine, growing marihuana, and pimping adolescent girls.
Facing the dance floor, Nicki was waiting patiently, when four men waved her to their table. She turned back to the bar, and her eyes drifted to the television behind the counter, on the wall. Feeling uneasy, she realized she was bent over the bar, leaning on the bar, her ass cheeks probably hanging out, so she settled into a stool— uncomfortable with the minuet of eyes looking in her direction.
Then, a brawny mountain of a man lumbered over, bringing with him a tsunami of sweat, mangy hair, foul odors that banked her senses, and he put a beer in front of her. The mug hit the counter hard, and a thin arc of beer sprayed into the air, depositing several coin shaped drops on Nicki’s shirt and vest.
“Can I buy you a beer?” he said in a redneck vernacular, close enough to her face that she could feel whiskers against her cheeks. A question that poked at her psyche, like a sharp jab to the ribs. His manic eyes lingering around her face and breasts, licking his bottom lip, enjoying his moment in Disneyland—a trunk of man who wore his body odor like a gun. His self-worth measured by the degree in which he could inspire fear in others.
“Thank you, but beers are free for me.” Nicki pulled away and pointed at a squalid, pear shaped toothless woman, and whispered theatrically, with a smile and a hint of petulance, in the woman’s direction. “She looks like she could use one,” Nicki said, the sarcasm in her voice absorbed by the noise in the bar. His flirty banter, something Nicki found repulsive.
“Oh, a smart ass”, he bellied in a drunken stupor, looking at Nicki with an arresting gaze. He looked at his friends and laughed.
“Hey, boys. We got us a Barbie doll over here— thinks she’s too perty for us.” Nicki turned her torso to the left, avoiding the stench from his mouth, and waved down a waitress.
“Darling, have you seen Cletus? Can you tell him I’m in a bit of a rush?”
“Sit tight, sweet stuff. I’ll fetch him for you… Can I get you anything while you wait?”
“Yes, you can get this guttersnipe away from me,” Nicki said looking away from the toxic, foul smelling troll. It took a moment for the insult to register in his little mind, then, as if he’d been prodded with a hot stick, he grabbed Nicki by the shoulder and turned her to the right, facing him.
******************
Standing on the gravel, leaning against the front of his truck, Kyle finished his business with Trey, looked at the phone to check the time and quickly realized that Nicki had been inside for a while. He slipped his phone into his pocket and made his way into the bar, glancing at the building— an old ‘A’ frame that looked like a barn. The roof was galvanized metal— rusty, bent in places, the siding was reclaimed wood and the facade had six four-panel windows painted white— cracking in places. Kyle stepped up on the wood deck and walked through the bat-wing doors.
******************
“What’d you say, you sassy little Bitch?”
“I said— and read my lips. No— means no. Not in this lifetime. Now get your filthy hand off my shoulder.”
Nicki shrugged her shoulder away, swiveled away from him, unleashing his grasp on her.
“Or, what— Bamma Whore?” Nicki said nothing, hoping he would go away. Nicki tried to turn away, but the hillbilly held her firmly. She looked to the doors and watched Kyle walk in.
“I’m talkin’ to you, Calico Queen,” he said leaning in her ear, “You think you’re Cooter’s to perty for me?”
Kyle looked over at Nicki, sitting next to a mountain man, and walked casually over. “Everything all right, sweetheart?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Nicki said, her eyes sleepy with relief.
“Can I help you, sir? Kyle cooed softly, lifting the man’s hand off Nicki’s stool, taken back by the man’s blindness. Kyle thinking that this man’s perception must be skewed by alcohol.
“Best mind your business, blue legs, we don’t take kindly to Yankee piss pots round here.” Kyle looked at Nicki.
“Why does everyone keep calling me a Yankee?” Nicki gave him a palms up, a shrug, and Kyle acknowledged her gesture. Kyle shifted his gaze back to the grizzly.
“Well, you see, Housse, this is my business— that’s my wife you’re talking to.” Kyle was clearly fighting the desire to turn off the merry light in his eyes.
“Well, you need to teach this Calamity Jane sum manners,” he said, his face smug.
“I’ll be sure to do that when I get her home.” Kyle winked at Nicki.
“Kyle, not now. We have to find the boys.”
“You callin’ me dumb, boy?”
“No, I think you’re doing that all by yourself… I think you’ve wandered too far out in the creek and lost your way.”
“You know who you’re talking to, Yankee boy?” Sitting with her elbows resting on the bar, watching Kyle, Nicki covered her mouth and laughed.
“Let me guess.” Kyle put two fingers on his chin, squinted his eyes, like he was thinking. He looked at the grungy man and said, “Umm: Dixie Mafia, Appalachian Outlaw, White Posse… Wait— KKK.” Kyle changed his tone and said in his best Toby Keith voice, “Shit, boy, you’re too stupid to be any of those, so I guess you’re just one dumb shit son of a bitch hillbilly who doesn’t know when to walk away.”
The next moments passed with appalling slowness, the lounge grew silent, all eyes on the developing situation, and Kyle’s voice came front and center.
You couldn’t fault the sloshed good ole’ boy. That backwoods hillbilly had no clue that when Kyle wasn’t wooing Nicki back, he was a quiet and polite gunslinger whose demeanor alone, let people know that this wasn’t a man to be trifled with. Or that Kyle had an innate ability to determine a person’s boiling point with a single glance. Kyle could read them and play them as part of his psyche.
The animated servers were
behind the bar now, watching, one with her hand on her mouth. Cletus was also behind the bar, hands on the counter, shaking his head, but not trying to diffuse the situation. The hillbilly had a crazed look in his eyes, a look that could freeze the dead sea. Staring at Kyle, his lips parted, exposing black and yellow teeth, generations of anger sealed in his face, the hillbilly broke his mug on the counter and swung it at Kyles face. Kyle leaned back to avoid the hit, grabbed the man’s right hand on his follow through, and quickly twisted the man’s arm around his back, spinning him a hundred and eighty degrees. The hillbilly dropped the mug and winced, Kyle standing behind him holding the hillbilly’s arm behind his back: Kyle’s forearm around his neck. The man’s mouth was dry, his heart hammering, his breathing coming hard. Kyle whispered in his ear, far from potential eavesdroppers, “I don’t give a shit who you are. I’m gonna to tell you one time nicely, and remember my face… I understand you made a mistake. Things got lose on you, and you’re trying figure out how it went sideways so fast. Don’t think about it too much, it’ll give you a headache. It’s just something that you couldn’t control.” Kyle looked at Nicki.
“I’m gonna let go, and remember, when you see me again—this is what I do.” The hillbilly’s face looked like he had just stepped in a nest of serpents.
Kyle let his arm go, the hillbilly grabbed his wrist and rubbed it to ease the pain and get circulation back into it. Looking at Kyle, the hollow of his face and pocket-change eyes flickered with untold fear. Seeing Kyle as a dead end, he scampered to the table, back to his friends who were all watching. Kyle sat on a stool next to Nicki, trying not to laugh, a foible that would further degrade the man’s dignity.
“I see you haven’t let that part of your life go.” Nicki said dismissively and smiled.
“I don’t know. Trouble just seems to follow me.”
“Well, at least you played nice with the fragrant young man.”
“Did he have an odor about him? I didn’t smell a thing.” They smiled, Cletus came over and put a beer in front of Kyle.
“That’s for not rearranging my furniture.” Cletus laughed.
“Cletus, did you talk to the barmaids?”
“I’m sorry, young lady, they don’t recall seeing any unaccompanied lads around.”
The drumming of voices resumed, Nicki thanked Cletus and took Kyle by the hand, his eyes fixed on an old television hanging on the wall behind the bar, playing highlights of West Virginia’s previous season—a local affiliate highlighting the upcoming season, the host sitting on a sofa interviewing guests.
“Cletus, would you mind turning the volume up? said Kyle. Nicki was next to the pool table talking to a waitress, the waitress more interested in asking questions about Kyle than showing concern for the missing boys, so Nicki pushed on, asking the server to call her if she saw the boys. Kyle gave Nicki a glance, then Kyle turned his eyes to the sports sho while Nicki wrote her phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to the waitress.
Buddy had his hands on a beer, a blank expression on his face, his friends still laughing at him.
At another table, four coal miners pointed at Buddy and his three friends, who were now standing, walking towards Kyle. Nicki saw Buddy and his trio approach.
“Kyle let’s go,” But Kyle was still watching his interview on the television.
The four coal miners were leaning forward, whispering, talking about the impending confrontation, and patrons that were ready to leave, quickly sat down.
“Kyle,” Nicki said, looking at the approaching men.
At the coal miner’s table, one guy was talking.
“That’s Kyle Tillman.” Two of them shook their head in acknowledgment, the third guy said, “Who’s Kyle Tillman?”
“I was a sophomore when he broke the all-time rushing and touchdown record at Franklin. He’s also the guy sitting next to Bill Stewart on the T.V.”
The man speaking, wearing soot covered overalls, paused. He leaned closer to his buddies and said, almost whispering, “Kyle is the new offensive coordinator at WVU, but there’s speculation he’ll be the next head coach when Bill retires.”
“You reckon we ought a help him?” The first guy, also wearing dirty coveralls, frowned, let out a hiss and said, “shit, boys. I think we ought a help the crackers, they’s about to walk into a shit storm.”
“What are you talkin’ about, Jed? Are you tellin’ me that Tillman’s not gonna get the shit kicked out of him?”
“Boys, when I was at Franklin, Betty asked me to Prom. I was a sophomore and Betty was a senior, and I got front row seats to the best Prom in the history of Pendleton County. They still talk about it today. You boys went to school at Seneca rocks so you probably didn’t hear. But anybody who went to school in Pendleton County will tell you about Kyle Tillman.”
“So what happened at Prom, Tommy?”
“Shit, boys— Kyle happened. These three assholes from another high school were makin’ moves on Nicki,” he said pointing at Nicki, “and Kyle went fuckin’ ape-shit on those turds. I mean, this kid, Troy, the one messing with Nicki, went to the hospital with a broken jaw and cheek bone. Kyle destroyed his face. Troy still don’t look right. I see him once in a while, and he sounds like a retard. The Sheriff arrested Kyle when he saw Troy’s face but he let him go when he found out it was three against one. He apologized to Troy’s family for letting Kyle go and told Troy’s mom, what did your boy expect when he went runnin’ into a hornet’s nest? Kyle became an instant legend, and though nobody fucked with him before Prom. After Prom, most guys wouldn’t even look him in the eyes.”
All eyes were on Kyle, Nicki, and the four approaching hillbillies; a hush enclosing the patrons. Cletus started clearing bottles and mugs from the counter top, moving his best liquor out of the way; stowing bottles in cabinets under the bar, and he took all cash off the counter. Kyle saw the hillbillies approach, gave them a smug look and walked to the door.
“Hey, buddy, looky here. That son of a bitch is on television,” said Clyde pointing at the television. Buddy didn’t seem to care, he followed Kyle. “Where you goin’, yellow belly.” Kyle turned his head, blew Buddy a kiss and walked through the bat-wing doors, to the parking lot, his phone buzzing. Cletus held the front door open, whispering under his breath, “Yeah, take it outside, boys.”
Buddy followed Kyle out, looked back at his buddies and said, “You boys gonna let the Yankee walk.”
“Shit, Buddy. We seen what that blue leg dun to you, and I ain’t got a hankerin’ to explain to Melba how some Yankee beat the tar out of the four of us.
“Are you tellin’ me that you’re all scared to fight that pretty boy?”
“I ain’t scared to fight, Buddy. I’m scared to get my teeth kicked in.”
“Yeah, Buddy,” said Clyde, “It’s a no win for us. If we wallop him, were supposed to. If we get greased, everybody in the bar, and at home, will laugh at us.”
“You ain’t seen the last of us, Yankee,” Buddy screamed as Kyle stepped in his truck. Kyle drove off, and like the exodus, people began to filter out of the Fire Creek Inn, expressing their disappointment about the fight that never happened.
CHAPTER 19
Nicki and Kyle left in the truck, shooting a rooster tail of gravel into the parking lot, headed to Franklin. Nicki took her boots off, turned her back to the door and put her legs under her butt, her eyes charged with light. She looked at Kyle, his eyes firmly on the road as serious as Kyle could be, watching the miles of pines blur across his eyes.
“Why didn’t you take that piece of shit off the shelf, Kyle? The old Kyle, the Kyle I knew, would have cooled him on the spot,” she said. “You know, Kyle, there are times when we should put away the restraints of mercy.”
“What did you just say?”
“I said, there are times when fighting is better than diplomacy.”
“Is this the same girl that left for her mothers, for two days, after I dismantled those two hair bags at that honky-tonk in Arlingt
on, on your birthday?”
“I don’t know—it’s been a while since I watched you work. Maybe I’m just tired of watching the paint peel in Franklin and I need a little excitement.”
Do you really want to rent space in your head to a low-life like that?”
“I don’t know— breaking his head on the counter seemed appropriate for the occasion.”
Kyle looked at her, then back to the road. “Jiminy, woman, do you remember prom? Do you remember that little honky-tonk in Charlottesville called The Surly Wench Club? Do the names Four-square, Atomic Liquors, The Tipsy Cow, or Ninety-five slide, ring a bell…I punched tickets on more than a few guys at every one of those joints and all it did was distance you from me… There’s no pleasing you, sunshine. Have you forgotten about the day I took you to Darlington Speedway, to watch NASCAR because you loved Dale Jarrett, who coincidentally spotted your ass under those denim Daisy Dukes near the winner’s circle, where he autographed the space between your strawberry creams, and you let him because you had knocked down six beakers of whiskey during the race, then he gave you a personal invitation to the after race party, and his phone number?”
“How could I forget… You walked up and advised him in a desultory, and very threatening way, that you were about to separate his head from his neck if he didn’t step back, at which time he redacted his invitation.”